The party is at a Mediterranean-style mansion boasting a huge swath of waterfront. It’s the palest of yellows, with a red tile roof, numerous balconies, even a tower. It’s dramatically lit and sheltered by palm trees. We leave the car with a valet then have to sweet-talk a bouncer checking an invitation list into allowing Trixie and Shanelle to join the party. Given how gorgeous they are, it’s not hard to persuade him. Soon we find ourselves walking along a flagstone path to the home’s gracious entry.
Inside it’s one gorgeously appointed room after the next, all featuring archways instead of doors and high ceilings striped with beams. Soft classical music is piped in from somewhere, an ironically classy touch given the nature of the event. Male servers hand us flutes of champagne, which we carry but ignore. We note a couple or two in intimate conversation but few guests are in evidence.
“I guess most people are outside,” Shanelle murmurs, and indeed in a narrow courtyard boasting a magnificent mosaic fountain we find more of a crowd.
“You notice how the men are a lot older than the women?” Trixie whispers.
“You notice how they look at us?” Their stares are bold and appraising. I feel like a steer at a cattle auction.
We’re checking out the pool and gazebo area, beyond which is a freshwater pond with a rock waterfall, when Alfonso barrels up to our trio. As usual he’s wearing tight dark pants and has left too many buttons undone on his silky shirt. “What’s the deal bringing these two along?” he hisses at me.
“Look, I did what you wanted. I came.”
“You did yourself a favor by coming here,” he tells me.
“I don’t see a lot of salsa going on,” I point out.
He lets fly a nasty chuckle. “Oh, it’s going on all right. Behind closed doors. Now all three of you mingle,” he orders, and spins away.
That’s what I plan to do but not to make Alfonso happy. I glance around. “I bet women would be more likely to chat about Peppi but it’ll be tricky to get one alone.”
This is not the sort of party where a female risks being a wallflower. Every single one is garnering male attention. I watch one man take a woman’s elbow and steer her inside. I bet he directs her upstairs to a bedroom. What did Alfonso tell me at our salsa lesson? That’s all you have to do tomorrow night. Let the man lead you wherever he wants to go.
At that moment a few men approach us. “Hello, ladies,” one of them says. He doesn’t bother to mask his leer. A conversation ensues. It doesn’t take long for the men to maneuver us apart from one another. I watch as a third man corners Trixie.
The one who attaches himself to me is mid-fifties, tall, graying, and cocky. Even if I didn’t know what he was here for, I wouldn’t like him. He tells me his name is Derek and he works in the cruise industry. I wonder if any of that is true. Certainly nothing I’ve said about myself is.
“You’re not drinking your champagne,” he observes after a while.
“I’m not very thirsty.”
“Maybe you’d like something stronger.”
“How about you get me something?” Maybe that way I can get rid of him.
“Don’t move,” he says but the moment he’s out of sight I slip inside the house. I move from living room to dining room to library trying to find a woman alone. I’m about to abandon the effort when I glance inside what looks to be a sunroom, dark now except for a glow from the lights around the pool just beyond the closed French doors. A lovely young brunette is sitting on a loveseat. She starts when she sees she’s been discovered.
I join her. “I don’t want to bother you but I don’t want to be out there anymore.”
“I don’t either. I can’t believe I got talked into this again.”
“Who talked you into it?”
I half expect her to say Alfonso. “A friend of mine. I came with her once and she got me to come back. I shouldn’t have. It’s gross.”
“I agree.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I got roped into it, too. By a guy I met at Diego’s. Do you happen to know Alfonso Ramos?”
She shakes her head. “I called a cab. I’m just waiting for it to get here.”
We look out at the gazebo and the waterfront beyond, lapsing into silence. Then I pipe up again. “That guy Alfonso I was telling you about works at that Spanish TV station where the weathergirl got murdered last week.”
“That was so sad! What was her name? Peppi? My friend told me she saw her at these a few times.”
“She saw Peppi? Are you sure?”
“That’s what she said. She saw her a few times. We talked about it after she got killed and was all over the news.”
Wow. My hunch was right.
“There you are!” a male voice booms. Who comes striding into the sunroom but Derek. He’s got a whisky in his hand and a mean look in his eye. He hands me the drink. “You said you’d stay put.”
The brunette stands up. “I just got a text my cab’s here. See you later.” She walks out.
I stand up, too.
“Try your drink,” Derek says.
I pretend to take a sip.
“You can do better than that,” he tells me. “Bottom’s up.”
I get the idea Derek’s growing impatient. No doubt he’s ready for the evening’s main festivities to begin. Since I have no intention of obliging, I follow the brunette out of the sunroom.
“Where you going now?” Derek demands.
I return to the courtyard, where neither Shanelle nor Trixie is in evidence. In fact, there aren’t many people around, period. This is not good. There’s safety in numbers.
Derek grabs my arm and tries to twist me around to face him.
“Don’t touch me.” I pull away and move toward the pool area. I’m pretty sure there are people out there. I think I saw a few when I was in the sunroom.
“What do you mean, don’t touch you?” Derek sounds incredulous. He keeps up with me as I pick up speed. There may be women who can’t walk swiftly in stilettos but I am not among them.
Fortunately there are people by the pool, two couples to be exact, one in the gazebo and another on a chaise lounge. Unfortunately they are way too distracted to be of any use to me. Where the heck are Trixie and Shanelle?
Again Derek grabs me by the arm. I spin around. “Look, no offense, but I am not your girl. Please leave me alone.”
“I don’t think so!”
This time he grabs me by both arms and tries to pull me close. I jerk up the hand holding the whisky glass and douse his face but good.
“Hey!” he sputters.
I race around the pool and clamber over a smallish barrier made of rocks. To my right is the pond, which is bigger than I expected, and in front of me the waterfront. Minus the house lights it’s pretty dark out here but I can see there’s a path bordered by grass that slopes down to the water. I’m figuring that probably the path loops around to the front of the house when my cell rings. I stop to pull it out of my clutch. It’s Shanelle.
“Where have you been?” she cries. “Trixie and I are out front by the valet parker. We couldn’t stand it anymore so we got the car.”
“Good. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I start jogging along the path even before I’ve returned my phone to my clutch. Before I know it I trip over some huge something and go flying. I land on all fours, skinning every limb I possess. Not to mention that my clutch goes flying and I lose one of my stilettos.
“Darn it!” Still on my hands and knees, I spin around to look for my shoe. I must look like a toddler crawling around on the path but it’s dark enough that’s my best hope of finding what I dropped. I grope the grass for either my clutch or my stiletto but the first thing I encounter is neither.
Whatever it is, it’s cold and scaly and wet and—
I rear backwards.
Oh. My. God.
Now I know what I tripped over.
Across the grass mere feet away, down on the ground just like me, is
a crocodile or an alligator, I don’t know what the heck it is, but it’s hulking there looking long and fat and lethal and staring right at me with menacing yellow eyes.
“Oh … my … God,” I murmur. Slowly, very slowly, I crawl back the tiniest little bit. No sudden moves, is what I’m thinking. Suddenly Derek seems like no threat at all. I’d rather fight him off than this prehistoric beast any day!
The huge ugly reptile snaps its head sideways, giving me an even better view of its spiky teeth. Then it makes sort of a coughing sound. I don’t know, maybe to be honest it’s more of a sneezing sound. But either way I don’t like it at all.
“Oh my God,” I repeat, this time in kind of a whimper. I keep backing away, inch by excruciating inch. Then out of the corner of my eye, a bit to my left, I see my stiletto poking up out of the grass. I must’ve crawled right past it.
I stop moving. Could I possibly rescue my shoe? It’s half of my best pair! I’m torn between self-preservation and my deep love for a fashion favorite.
The scaly leviathan doesn’t give me the chance to decide. It jerks forward at a shocking speed and snaps up my beloved stiletto, swallowing it in one noisy chomp. Then it eyes me with an evil look of triumph. I don’t speak Crocodile but I swear I can read the expression on its reptilian face. You’re next!
As if to prove it, the cold-blooded creature opens its jaws then does a little lunge in my direction.
Enough is enough! I break my vow not to do anything fast—not that I really can on all fours anyway—and spin around to make a break for it. Wouldn’t you know it that then I see my silver lamé clutch just ahead of me beside the path. I dive forward and grab it, thanking the heavens it didn’t pop open and spill out my phone and my lipstick and—
My pepper spray! Yes!
I whirl back around to face my tormenter, who’s alarmingly close because he crept forward while I wasn’t looking. I don’t let myself think. I hold out my pepper spray and shoot. Take that, you beast! Out pumps a burst of orange-y spray.
I can’t say it has a dramatic effect but the scaly brute stops and sputters. I don’t wait to observe the long-term effects. I rise to my feet, pull off my remaining stiletto, and sprint. I may be built for looks rather than speed but let me tell you I can move pretty darn fast when motivated. I race up the path, heart pounding, hoping Cary the Crocodile doesn’t have any slimy sidekicks up ahead or isn’t scurrying along behind me himself, supremely ticked off that all he’s had to eat so far is my shoe. No doubt he considered that just a leathery appetizer and now he wants his main course: five feet ten inches of brunette beauty queen.
Once I glance behind me and see no sign of him. I thank the heavens and keep scampering, because by now it’s clear the path does loop around and I will soon find myself at the front of the house to be reunited with my boon companions.
When I spy the Durango’s shiny red chassis on the mansion’s expansive driveway I could cry for joy. Since Shanelle is in the driver’s seat and Trixie’s riding shotgun, I fling myself in the rear of the vehicle. “Go! Go!” I cry.
“What the heck happened to you, girl?” Shanelle wants to know, peeling away down the driveway.
I’m panting so fast I almost can’t speak. “I almost got eaten alive back there!”
“So did I!” Trixie yelps. “Weren’t those men hideous?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
By the time we get close to Mario’s, the crocodile has gone from seven feet long to ten feet long and it probably had at least two hundred teeth and I think I heard it hiss as well as cough and when it lunged it came to within inches of my nose.
Okay, maybe I got to exaggerating a little but who can blame me? Now that I’ve escaped that fetid reptile, I’m giddy.
“Are you sure it was a crocodile and not an alligator?” Shanelle want to know.
“I’m not sure.” I pull out my cell phone, always helpful in a crisis. “Crocodiles have pointy snouts rather than U-shaped ones. Check. Crocodiles are lighter in color. Check. Mine was lightish green.”
“Moss green or more of an asparagus?” Trixie inquires. “Not seafoam.”
“Definitely not seafoam. More of a laurel green.”
“Sort of a camouflage color,” Shanelle says. “Makes sense.”
“Especially since crocodiles hang out in murky water trying not to be seen.” I shudder. I might have ended up spending some deeply unpleasant time in murky water myself. And now my stiletto is in the very belly of the beast. Poor adored shoe!
Shanelle drives the Durango into Mario’s gated community. “By the way, I spoke to somebody who’d seen Peppi at one of those parties.”
“So did I!” I cry. “The person I talked to said Peppi had been to several of them, which leads me to believe she wasn’t being roped into it.”
“That’s more evidence she was back to being the wild child,” Shanelle says.
“Maybe she needed money for her drug habit,” Trixie suggests. “Or to pay for her part of Sugarbabies.”
“Maybe she’s the one who thought of the name Sugarbabies,” Shanelle says. “Because if she went to those parties, girlfriend might have been one herself.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I say. “It’s always so hard for me to imagine Peppi having money problems but Paloma might have withheld cash from her if she was afraid she’d use it to fund a drug habit.”
When we arrive at the house, Mario’s silver Z8 is on the driveway. My heart rate ramps up though not as much as when I saw the crocodile looking at me the way I look at a steak and baked potato. We find Mario at the kitchen island working on his laptop and nursing a whisky and soda. He’s wearing jeans and a white button-down shirt open at the neck and with the sleeves rolled up. He looks his usual dashing self if a little tired.
It’s unnerving to see him. Before he left, he and I fought—over Mariela, over Consuela, and over my investigating. And now I have more negative things to relay about his daughter. He doesn’t seem the type but he may well blame the messenger.
He leaps to his feet when he sees me. “What in the world happened to you?”
“How about we explain while we clean her up?” Shanelle suggests and we all tromp to the bathroom she and Trixie share to cleanse my scrapes and dab me with Neosporin. In the morning I’ll be retelling my story a third time to Pop and Rachel. Jason will have to hear it too at some point. I don’t want to think how he’ll react.
I return to the kitchen after I change from my bandage dress and one stiletto to pajamas, two slippers, and about half a dozen bandages.
“That was a little worse than the macaw on Oahu,” Mario remarks.
“You’re not kidding.” I shed a little blood in that incident but never feared for my life. I pass on Mario’s offer of a whisky and opt instead for chocolate chip ice cream. I serve myself two whole scoops. Tonight this beauty queen deserves a special treat. Shanelle joins me and Trixie goes for the hard stuff.
A few minutes later, the two of them leave Mario and me alone. They know he’s eager to hear what happened with his daughter in his absence.
I tell him about Mariela’s shenanigans. He explodes. “Are you kidding me? Have sex and film it? For all the world to see? I can’t believe she’d do that!”
“Remember, Mario, when it came down to it she didn’t do it. The boy even said he didn’t think she’d go through with it.”
Mario can’t stop shaking his head. He’s so upset he doesn’t know what to say. I feel so bad for him. I know how betrayed a parent feels when their child does something they couldn’t have imagined.
“That’s why Mariela wanted to stay here,” he tells me. “She knew that if she were home with Consuela she wouldn’t have been able to get away with this.”
I agree with Mario’s reasoning though I’m not convinced Consuela is that effective a guardian.
“Not that I’m blaming you, Happy,” he goes on. “I’m not at all. Mariela was not your responsibility.” He exits the kitchen. “I’m going to get her. Plea
se stay here.”
It’s the second time tonight I’ve received that directive. This time I’ll oblige.
It’s a sullen Mariela who shuffles into the kitchen. Even though she’s in her father’s presence, tonight she does not morph into her sweet alter ego. She cocks her chin at me. “Does she have to be here?” she asks her father.
“She deserves to hear your explanation, too. Now spill it.”
Unwisely, Mariela sticks to her argument that many celebrities have sex tapes and hence she needs one as well. “Celebrities who are just like me. Paris Hilton. Kim Kardashian. They have famous fathers too but didn’t get started till they had sex tapes. I wasn’t going to do much on it,” she offers but, no surprise, that claim does not appease her father.
He throws out his hands. “Why are you so obsessed with being famous?”
“You’re famous,” she retorts. “You must’ve wanted to be.”
“What I wanted was to be in the entertainment business. Do you know how many acting classes I took, Mariela? Do you know how many casting calls I went out on? I’m working all the time to perfect my skills. Even now. That’s what you have to do. You have to work at your craft. Then, if you’re very good and very, very lucky, then maybe someday you’ll be famous.”
“This is a shortcut,” she insists. “And I need one! Because that audition is in just a few weeks.” She thrusts out her lower lip and Pouty Mariela emerges. “I thought you’d understand.”
Mario throws me a look of frustration. I’m not getting through to her, it says. No, he’s not.
“Who’s the boy?” he asks her. “I have to talk to his parents. Or your mom does.”
Even after numerous entreaties, she refuses to say. I keep mum although I do know his first name.
“Needless to say, you’re grounded,” Mario concludes.
“No!” she shrieks. “Why? We never even made the tape!”
“You were going to. That’s why.”
She sulks. Then she mutters: “You can’t really ground me anyway.”
Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 3) Page 23